Like Dusk to Dawn
by Enthusiastic Fish
Summary: He knew he shouldn't have opened the door, but he also knew that he needed to. Oneshot written for the NFA Great Summary Challenge.


**A/N:** This story is a slight departure for me. The two characters aren't named until the very end, although it'll be pretty obvious who they are. It's an episode tag, but I'm not telling you which episode it's for. Basically, I'm experimenting and I have no idea how successful that experiment is. I tend to be better off sticking with my usual format, but every so often, it's fun to try something different, even if it's just a little bit.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own NCIS or its characters and I'm not making money on this story. (I probably wouldn't in any case, though.)

* * *

 **Like Dusk to Dawn  
** by Enthusiastic Fish

 _Every time I look in the mirror_  
 _All these lines on my face getting clearer_  
 _The past is gone_  
 _It went by, like dusk to dawn_  
 _Isn't that the way_  
 _Everybody's got their dues in life to pay_

 _Yeah, I know nobody knows_  
 _Where it comes and where it goes_  
 _I know it's everybody's sin_  
 _You got to lose to know how to win_  
 _~ "Dream On" by Aerosmith_

There was a knock at the door.

He waited. Everyone knew that his door was never locked. If they wanted to talk to him, they could just come in.

Another knock.

He didn't want to open the door. What was the point? No good ever came from answering a knock when you weren't expecting anyone. It was either really bad news or someone trying to sell you something. Best to ignore it.

Another knock.

He continued to plane the wood. Bad news would keep. Salesmen were annoying, even when they were honest. He'd regret it if he opened the door.

Another knock.

The person would not go away. Whoever it was, definitely not a salesman. A salesman would have given up. Bad news person? Maybe, but most wouldn't hang around, either. They'd call when it appeared that there was no one home.

Another knock.

He sighed. He supposed that he could deal with whatever the knock was promising. Still, he didn't want to answer the door.

Another knock.

He put down the planer. The weird thing was that the knock wasn't loud or demanding. It was just barely loud enough for him to hear it, as if the person was counting on him being down in the basement.

Another knock.

No, it wasn't demanding, just persistent. It could even be called polite. Perhaps, it was someone ready to take him out. That was always a possibility, especially with everything he'd done in his life. Was he ready to face _that_ option?

Another knock.

Actually, yes. He felt he was. Decision made, he climbed up the steps and walked to the front door.

Another knock.

He opened it and raised an eyebrow. There was no need to say anything. He'd never needed to say anything before. Or at least, he'd never needed to say much. ...but he regretted opening the door as soon as he did.

Because the man he was facing said nothing, either. He just stood there, staring at him. He didn't need to speak, either. His eyes did all the speaking for him, and they were screaming out for something to be done. They had that expression that caused pain even while expressing it. He'd never been good at hiding how he felt...at least for those who cared to look.

 _I knew I shouldn't have opened the door._

He thought that, but at the same time, he knew that he would have felt guilty if he had known who it was and left him alone.

He stood aside and let the man come in.

It was silent as he led him down to the basement. He followed, without a word. He had probably known where they'd end up. He knew the explanation for the knocking. Of all the people he'd ever had on his team, this was the one person who would _never_ feel comfortable just walking into his boss' home. Even if he had been _told_ just to walk in. He would do it, but he'd feel awkward. In this situation, he wouldn't want to because he _needed_ to be let in.

They both clomped down the stairs. Then, he walked over, picked up his planer and started to work again. His visitor sat down on the steps and said nothing. He just sat there, staring with those pained eyes. They were almost the eyes of a child, wanting his father to save him. Maybe that was the real problem, but he thought not. After everything that had happened in the last few days, he had grown up. It wasn't fair to say that he was naive. He wasn't. He knew what life could be like. He'd seen it before. He'd seen loss and he'd seen hate. He'd felt that anger that boiled up inside until it needed an outlet somewhere, the anger that covered grief. This had aged him, though, at least temporarily. He had faced a different kind of loss, one that had left him questioning and wanting a way out.

The problem was probably that he had been lost in the shuffle of those who grieved. Because he was younger, newer, different, it was assumed that his feeling of loss was less, that he had reacted in a way that indicated the depth of his feeling. Private person that he was, he tended to keep his real feelings hidden, letting only the surface out. That led people to assume that the surface was all there was when there were unplumbed depths.

It was a little worrying because there was no real way to make the grief go away...and more than the grief, there was no way to make the _guilt_ go away. However, he had the feeling that this was what he wanted.

It just couldn't happen. Time would help, but that always meant so little in the moment. Sure, pain faded, but it didn't mean that it didn't hurt like the dickens right then.

The minutes ticked by in a silence that, somehow, wasn't awkward.

Every so often, he'd look over to the steps and see those eyes looking at him or at the floor. It was always one or the other.

Then, finally, after about half an hour, he heard a sigh, the first sound to break the silence.

"I'm sorry," he said, softly.

He grimaced to himself. Of course, the first thing he said was an apology. For some reason, his usual response wouldn't come. Instead, he found himself responding with a question. He kept planing, knowing that his eyes could reduce his agent to stammering.

"For what?"

"I wasn't going to come over here. I know that I'm not the one who lost the most. I know I shouldn't make it all about me."

"Then, why did you come?"

"I don't know." He paused. "How do you get through it?"

"Through what?"

"All this. I can't ask anyone else."

"Why not? You think they've never felt it before?"

"No, that's not it. I don't think they'd admit it. Not to me."

That much was probably true. Whether that was really the reason or not, it was probably true. None of them liked admitting to normal human feelings.

"But I need to know what to do."

"You can't know that."

"Why not?"

"Because no one does until they go through it themselves. You can't know what will be right for you."

"I should have died."

There it was. The main feeling he had.

"No, you shouldn't."

"Yes. We were the ones who were on the list. It should have been me. He'd just got married! I went to his wedding. He had a great life ahead of him."

"And you don't?"

"Nothing special."

He put the planer down and turned to face his agent.

"It's not about being special. It's about living. It doesn't matter whether you deserve it or not. You're alive, and living thinking you should be the dead one only means that there are two victims instead of one. Does that help anyone?"

The eyes dropped back to the floor. He sighed. He should have known that it wouldn't help. While what he had said was true, it didn't really make things easier. He poured a couple of jars of bourbon and walked over. He sat down beside him and held out a jar.

He took a sip and coughed.

"That's strong."

"Don't drink too much."

"I think I've had enough."

He smiled.

"Whether you and I or any of us should still be alive doesn't matter. The past is over and done with. Nothing you do will change it. You need to accept it and live the best you can."

"How do I do that? It's easy to say."

"Not easy to do. I know."

"How?"

"One day at a time, knowing that you can't go back...and knowing that he wouldn't want you dead in his place."

Finally, he nodded.

"I'm sorry for bothering you."

"Don't apologize."

He didn't need to finish. They all knew it...and they all knew it was pretty much a load of hooey.

"What now?"

"You go home and get ready for another day."

They both stood. He started up the steps.

"Tim."

He turned back.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"And if you ever need to, you know that you can come to me."

He smiled.

"Yeah, Boss. This time, I know."

Then, he left.

He hadn't wanted to open the door, but he knew that he'd needed to. Hopefully, good had come from it.

He walked back, picked up his planer and smoothed down another plank.

FINIS!


End file.
